


Beyond the Treeline

by HiMiTSu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, Investigation, M/M, Magical Forest, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Character Death, Romance, sterek reversebang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 11:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: Stiles felt a longing; deep in his chest a memory of a beautiful forest. It called out to him, a beckoning and a cry for help. To save it he must go home. Meeting old friends and making new ones, letting the magic change his life once again.





	Beyond the Treeline

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beyond the treeline - Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207811) by [merakieros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merakieros/pseuds/merakieros). 



> Written for Sterek Reversebang 2017. Inspired by an amazing artwork by [ Merakieros](http://merakieros.tumblr.com/). It is truly beautiful and you should definitely send the author all your love with kudos and reblogs [here](http://merakieros.tumblr.com/post/161856415833)!:D
> 
> Thanks to my beta [ myblackeyedboy ](http://www.myblackeyedboy.tumblr.com) (also on [ AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myblackeyedboy)). Thank you for the help and encouragement!
> 
> Those of you familiar with the Raven Cycle will see some things I borrowed from those books. I also did a small research on the types of plants that grow in California, so hopefully I didn’t mess anything up.

Stiles felt it right in the middle of his Juvenile Delinquency class. A tug under his breastbone, so familiar and yet almost forgotten. A longing for a beautiful place, far away and yet always in his heart.

The professor’s soft baritone kept droning on but Stiles didn’t hear it anymore. In his ears a rustling of leaves sung a soft song, a gentle lullaby that rang sweet and clear. It was tune always in his heart, stuck at the back of his mind, only coming to the surface when he needed it. Or when _it_ needed _him_. He savored the moment, bending his head over his notes on the desk and letting his eyes slip closed. Pictures, painfully familiar, stood behind his eyelids: every shade of green, each beautiful and full of life. A blue, so clear – you could never find anything like it in the city. And whites and pinks and yellows and purples, many colors of the field flowers.

Stiles liked his life in the big city but there were moments when the melancholy for that magical place got too strong. It overpowered every sense and broke his heart with a call to come back.

His fingers gripped a pen tightly as he fought against the rising sadness and then released it abruptly. It was neither the time nor the place. The blackboard came into focus, just as the plump little man standing before it and gesticulating wildly. Stiles brushed the melody aside as one would brush away the low hanging branches. It grew quiet in his head. A moment – a twinge of disappointment for having chased away the familiar presence – and he moved on with his day.

Next time came two days later. Stiles tripped over a chair in the library as a _scream_ tore through his mind. The chair fell and Stiles stumbled to his knees clumsily; he must have made quite a ruckus as people turned in their seats to watch. He blinked – his vision full of green – and in the next moment a dirty blue carpet was all he could see again. The sound: sharp and bloodcurdling, cut off as abruptly as it appeared.

Someone stepped up to him, offering help. A cute blonde with a sweet smile and caring eyes. Stiles brushed her off gently.

He picked up the book he had dropped, gathered his things and hightailed it out of the library.

Just a couple a weeks, he sent a silent prayer. His classes would end soon and he’d be able to come home. Give me just a couple of weeks.

It was silent after that. Up until his last night on campus.

Stiles had packed a bag, went out for drinks with some friends, celebrating the end of the semester, and went to bed, drunk and happy. His roommate had already left, eager to go home. Stiles had fallen into bed, snuggled under the blankets and welcomed sleep, his last thought about the long drive home the following day.

The dream took him right away. He was in a free fall, wind singing in his ears and rustling his clothes. Cold. He suppressed a first tang of fear and let the current take him, falling back. Back. Accelerating until he could hear nothing but the roar of the air while the world flashed by. He reached a hand out, tracing the bright sun shining down on this imaginary world.

It all came to a stop as he hit the ground, his fall softened by autumn leaves. Orange and yellow and red swirled around. He reached out, tentatively, just a pad of his finger grazing the dancing leaves – the moment peaceful, undisturbed. In the next second he was pushed forward, stumbling to his feet while the ground tilted sideways and then he was running. The flat plane of flowers was wilting before his eyes. The rot followed him and he tried to get away but it was a dream, just a dream, and he couldn’t. His feet felt like lead and the air was tangy, resistant. He pressed forward, fighting, glancing back to see the darkness and dying flowers, closer and closer.

A forest loomed ahead. Far on the horizon. Too far. He would never make it.

Stiles’ heart beat madly in his chest. He gulped air that felt like ice in his lungs. The rot was upon him. The cold was in the air – his breath came as white puffs before his face.

Stiles skidded to a stop as he slipped on the rotten flowers and could barely hold his balance. He whipped his head, turning, turning, but it was all around him.

His one hope – the forest still so far away – was turning black. The rot had taken over the world.

Stiles froze, eyes glued to the trees: leaves rapidly turning muddy brown and falling off, hitting the ground like stones. His breathing was loud in his ears, louder only than the beating of his heart. Cold mist was biting at his feet. He took a breath, held it…

A screech tore through the silence. A tortured soul not even asking for help any more, just letting out the pain and the anguish. It rang over the field and the forest and all the rot; it echoed through the dream world. Stiles clutched both hands to his ears to block it out. One scream turned into two and then a dozen, multiplying in volume and in _pain_. So much pain.

Stiles fell to his knees. The rot clung to his jeans and he watched, helplessly, it crawl up his leg, consuming him the same way it took the flowers and the trees.

He screamed, his voice joining those of the dying trees.

Stiles jerked awake, panicked. His throat was raw and he was trembling violently. He pushed away the blankets and ran his palms over his legs, making sure he was fine. Fine.

“Just a dream,” he muttered in a shaky voice. The darkness didn’t reply. It didn’t need to. He knew he was lying. It was never just a dream. It was a cry for help.

Stiles was going home in the morning.

Beacon Hills was an ordinary small town. A quiet place where neighbors knew each other and friendships between families were as old as the houses those families lived in. A school, a mall and a police station – places where you could find almost anyone. The atmosphere was cozy, friendly. Coming here felt like being welcomed back by a big albeit distant family.

Stiles made a stop at a gas station just at the edge of town, and there already he was met with friendly faces. Asking about his school. Retelling recent gossip. Telling how they just met his dad that morning and how excited he was about Stiles’ visit.

All so ordinary. So nice.

Except if one were to dig deeper, look closer, they were bound to see all the inconsistences. All the dark places. Supernatural lurking just out of your field of vision. If you knew where to look, if you knew how, you noticed how sickly pale the gas station manager was and how he shied away from the rising sun as he finished his shift and left for home. A black car with tinted windows speeding up west. If you strained your ears you heard a faint song under the heavy beat coming from a night club – sweet voice enchanting passersby to come in. And if you ventured out at night, if you were brave enough to go into the forest…you might see unbelievable things. Terrifying. Wonderful.

Stiles’ eyes skimmed over the trees as he drove by; a familiar pull turning into a dull ache in his chest. He would go out that night. He would find out what was hurting the forest so much. His hands tightened on the steering wheel just a fraction.

 

* * *

 

The patrol car was parked at the drive way when Stiles pulled up to the house. Even without it, he knew his father was home. Could see a silhouette against a kitchen window, peeking around a curtain. Just that – a glimpse of his dad waiting for his arrival – finally eased the tension. He smiled, freely, for the first time in days. He was home.

John Stilinski, still in uniform, enveloped Stiles in a hug as soon as his son stepped over the threshold. The bag fall to the floor when Stiles reached out to throw his arms around his dad’s sturdy frame. His strength, his warmth, his smell. Stiles relaxed into familiar sensations, calm for once.

“Come on, I’ve made dinner.” His father cajoled, stepping away and leading Stiles to the kitchen. ‘Made dinner’ was definitely just a turn of phrase in his case; as a man who had many talents excluding cooking, Sheriff went with the easy option of ordering food. Stiles laughed and then pretended to be angry at the sight of all the greasy deliciousness, and then laughed some more at his father’s expression. It was good to be back.

“So, what’s new in town?” Stiles asked through a mouthful of fries. He was pleasantly full and still his hand reached for them, almost automatically. It seemed a crime, leaving them to grow cold and disgusting.

“Nothing much,” John shrugged. He knew why Stiles was asking. More than that, he understood why. Same reason why his son was going to work at the Sheriff station as soon as he finished college. Except, Stiles’ motivation went further than ‘protect the citizens’. Protect the city. Protect the forest. Not only because he was the only one who could or because it was the right thing to do…It was an instinct. A deep seated desire to make things right. Bring order to where there was chaos. Stiles had it long before the forest became more than just trees and trails, before it opened up to him and forged a connection that bound his soul to it forever.

“No new faces? Any gossip?” Stiles smirked before biting down on a straw of his drink.

“Deaton has a new intern. He says Scott was so much better though,” He chuckled and stole a fry from Stiles’ plate. He wasn’t allowed any of his own but it didn’t stop John from eating half of his son’s.

“Who is it?” This wasn’t enough to peak his interest, but did warrant some further questioning. Stiles was warm and sleepy already, so maybe he would leave proper investigating for the following day.

“That guy…” John frowned, recollecting. “Matt? I think.”

“The creepy one?” Stiles clarified.

John’s brows pulled into a frown of disapproval; still, he nodded.

Matt, who stalked Allison for weeks, taking dozens of pictures and hanging those up on the walls of his room. Creepy. He got caught, obviously. Stiles suspected, it wasn’t the restraining order that made him stop, and not even a thinly veiled threat Mr. Argent delivered. No, it totally was the way Allison twisted his arm and sweetly promised to break it if he ever took a picture of her again. A couple years after that Allison moved away for university and Matt stayed, no less creepy but less dangerous. He wasn’t a matter of concern any more.

“Anything else?” Stiles asked when his dad grew quiet.

“Mr. Harris promised to retire.”

Stiles nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t comment. That too wasn’t the type of information he was after. Harris was threatening kids with his retirement every year, anyway.

“Oh, and the Hales moved back into town.” John exclaimed. He used Stiles’ moment of surprise to snatch the last handful of fries. He also laughed at Stile’s indubitably masterful interpretation of a gaping fish.

“You should have lead with that!” Stiles moved to shove his dad in the arm playfully but missed and ended up sliding off the couch and sprawling on the floor. He kicked listlessly at the Sheriff’s shin.

“Well, it’s been a while already,” his dad replied through subsiding laughter. “They must have moved into the old house right after Christmas.”

Stiles hummed low in his throat, thoughtful. It was a little too early for a timeline he was building in his mind, but it might still work. For the moment, at least, the Hales were the newest disruption in town. They could be a reason for the sudden decay in magic. Not to mention, their house was right in the middle of the woods.

“You think they are responsible for…whatever is happening?”

“Who says anything is happening?” Stiles shot back with a grin.

A flat look he got instead of a reply was enough to make Stiles look away laughing. His dad knew him too well. “It’s nothing too terrible,” he promised.

“Just be careful.” Was the only thing his dad said and with that the topic was abandoned for the evening.

That night Stiles stretched out in the middle of his old bed and let his mind wander. It was amazing how such a little town could hold so much magic. Supernatural creatures found shelter here, on the crossroads of ancient magical currents, making Beacon Hills a capital for all things magical.

A true beacon for everything supernatural.

What Stiles could feel with his soul, what he could see with this mind’s eye was only a small part. The forest called out to him stronger than anything; it’s energy an essential part of him. They were one, tied together by his promise and sacrifice.

It burned in his mind, every tree a bright column of light, every flower – an out of focus point, glowing softly. Radiant, they called out to him, welcoming his presence with warmth. In a dream that wasn’t quite a dream rays of the sun fell on his face, caressing his skin. The grass rustled at his feet, young sprouts leaning into him like affectionate kittens. He opened his eyes to this other world, grazed his fingers over the tall grass in greeting. Stepped under the canopy of trees.

A whisper of leaves was a welcoming song. Branches reached out to touch him as he passed. He heard more clearly the voices of those that touched his skin, a greeting and a concern at his long absence, and sometimes, a reproach. He never voiced an apology – they could read in his heart better than he could.

The forest looked healthy in this dream, no trace of the nightmares that plagued him before. Summer sun was warm and a light breeze pleasantly cool. It got darker as he went further, the canopy above obscuring the light. Stiles trod slowly further inside, to the parts where no hiking trails led, where inexperienced citizens never ventured. It could be dangerous in these parts. The dark settled over him, old trees so tall and huge they completely cut out the sun. In a place like that it felt as if you were the only person in the world.

In the silence, Stiles heard a distant murmur of a forest stream. He turned, trying to find the source. Only as he looked closely to the ground did Stiles notice how the grass was withered and dying. There were no flowers here, pine needles covered the ground and moss clung to the trees.

The gurgle of water came again, louder this time, more insistent. Stiles followed the sound, stepping carefully over the roots. Soon he came to a small spring. It curled around the stones, burbling happily, and disappeared further away. Stiles followed its curves, getting lost whenever it ducked under a tree root and finding it again on the other side. A ringing melody of it sang in the air, comforting presence in the otherwise dark place. Air was heavier here, more tangible, full of oppressive heat. Stiles gave in to  temptation and leaned down to scoop some cold water from the spring. It was clear and tasted sweet, bringing relief to his parched throat. Sweat was running down his back, shirt clinging to his skin unpleasantly. This was not the usual heat of a summer day. This was something different. It smelled like rot and sat uncomfortably on his skin.

The spring led him to a clearing. Trees stood aside to form a circle, their crowns parted to give way to the sky. But it wasn’t clear and blue any more. Heavy clouds hung overhead and covered the sun. It was darker still.

Stiles hung at the edge of the tree line, eyes trailing the path of the stream across the clearing. It ran, just as merrily, over the wilted grass and dead flowers, its clear waters muddled. Brown and then a deeper color; its texture changed more like tar than water. With sudden fear Stiles realized it looked like blood.

His gaze followed it all the way to the other end. There stood a cave. A piece of rock risen from the ground, mud and tree roots constricting it from the top, and its mouth – a gaping hole of blackness. That’s where the spring was leading him.

Stiles reached out and grabbed hard onto a branch of nearest tree. He wasn’t going to cross the clearing. He wasn’t heading into the cave. It called out to him, but not with the kind voices of the forest, with a deep rumble that beckoned him to come closer, dared him to enter.

The dark clouds overhead pressed heavily on him. The whole place was suffocating. Stiles’ nails dug into the bark; the allure of the darkness was strong, but if he stepped there now he would be lost forever. Traveling like this, his soul was at the most vulnerable. He would be devoured.

Stiles stepped back. It took effort, legs like lead and the very air resisting his movement.

Time to wake up, he thought.

Time to wake up.

The sky descended and the stream turned into a bloody river, its rumble overpowering the pitiful pleas of the forest.

Time to…

 

* * *

 

His dad didn’t comment on the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes the next morning. He simply pushed a mug of hot coffee across the counter and eyed Stiles up over the rim of his own cup. He was already in uniform. “Any plans for today?” The question perfunctory but Stiles replied nonetheless.

“A walk in the forest.” He shrugged and drained half the cup in one gulp. It was a nice morning, cloudy but with the sun peeking out from the clouds now and then. It would probably get hot after midday but under the canopy of trees he would be safe from the hot summer sun. Through the window, he could see the neighbors getting ready for a picnic, a couple of kids running around the car excitedly while their parents loaded the trunk.

Stiles turned away to fill his mug with more coffee. “See how it’s going…”

His dad nodded. “Drop by for lunch?”

Stiles glanced at the clock, figuring out how much time that would leave him for exploring. It was obvious though that his dad’s request was more of a safety net than anything else: if Stiles committed to a lunch together the Sheriff would have a proper time frame to know when to freak out if his son didn’t return from the woods. According to Stiles’ calculation the trip shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. He would just do some recon and plan out the best approach.

“Yeah, okay.”

The Sheriff nodded and left for work. With no time to waste Stiles rushed through breakfast and getting ready, took the old jeep across town and parked it on an old dirt road. Grabbing a backpack from the backseat, Stiles stepped into the forest.

Just like in the dream trees greeted him warmly. They didn’t speak to him in reality but their leaves rustled and their barks creaked, and a wind gently tore through the crowns. Stiles took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that smelled like pine and moss and flowers. Here he finally felt like he could breathe properly. He missed this in the city.

Stiles crossed a small ravine, scraping his hand when he almost tumbled down and only caught himself on a branch just in time. He could feel a change in the atmosphere as he climbed up a steep incline. Behind that border true magic lay. Air thrummed with life, vibrant and loud, it enveloped him like a gentle embrace. Stiles slowed down his steps, more careful now.

Awake he didn’t feel the thin smell of decay or the oppressive heat that dark magic generated. The forest was as beautiful as ever. And still, there was a tightness in his throat and a weight on his shoulders. A cry for help he had heard in the dreams rang in his ears. Something was horribly wrong with this place and it was his job to make it right.

Stiles turned west at the first clearing he encountered, following a well-worn trail to the _eternal tree_. All the magic of the forest, the countless lines of it that sprawled like a web over Beacon Hills, crossed here. It was a powerful place – if one wanted to drain the forest of its magic they would certainly start here. It was Stiles’ first guess when he got the cry for help. It didn’t fit with the vision of the previous night, but, he reasoned, he needed to start somewhere. The most logical guess seemed a solid first step.

The tree, and Stiles only called it _eternal_ so he would have a name for it, stood aside from its brethren. It also, for all intents and purposes, was a stump. A huge one, more than 15 feet in diameter, it stood on a patch of dead earth, away from everything living because nothing could grow by it. However, Stiles knew, saw it in dreams and in rare visions the forest granted him, that at the same time the tree was _living_. Growing high at the center of a clearing, the floor covered in high grass and bright blooming flowers and colorful ripe berries. It towered over all the forest, magnificent in its power. Twinkling blue lights decorated the crown, many otherworldly fireflies, made of pure spiritual energy, found home among its leaves.

The tree wasn’t a magical object. It was a _being_ , living and thinking; it only showed its other form to those it deemed trustworthy.

As Stiles came to it that morning, the clearing looked nothing like the colorful memory that still sat in his mind. It was empty and barren, ground nothing but dirt and sand under his feet. The roots that stretched all around were dry. Stiles stepped over them carefully and neared the tree stump.

It was huge and withered by weather and time, sapwood and heartwood both pale and dead, but the tree rings stood out clearly still. They ran jagged lines all over the stump, countless number of them telling an endless tale. Stiles dropped his backpack to the ground and tentatively reached out. His outstretched hand was steady even though worry nagged at him.

His fingers grazed the surface. At first there was nothing; just grainy wood, solid and rough. He slid his finger over a concentric circle, a dark one that stood out sharply. Magic pulsed through it, an insect bite to the pad of his finger. And then he was thrown head first into a vision.

Stiles gasped, catching air with lungs that felt suddenly constricted. Impulsively he tried to tug his hand away but it was stuck; the tree held him tight and thrown him into a world of its own. A dream of an ancient being – its only way of communicating. Stiles fought the first impulse to struggle and let it lead him.

Feeling his acceptance the _eternal tree_ threw the vision at him; snippets, quick and almost indistinguishable, flew before his eyes. He tried to catch one, latch onto to it, _understand_ it, but it was too fast for his human brain to master.

_A house, away in the woods. Old and dirty. Barely standing._

_A sunlit trail._

_Gaping mouth of a cave._ Yes, that one. Show me that one – but it was whisked away in the smoke of the next vision.

_A dog. Huge and shaggy. Not a dog, but a wolf. Eyes bright – two shining sapphires in the dark._

_A roar, so vicious, it makes his blood run cold. A hiss, so low, it mixes with the rumble of the earth._

  _A drop. Heavy. Clear. Falling. Falling._

_A splash where it hits a pool of crimson._

And then Stiles was stumbling backwards, falling over a tree root and landing on his ass, gasping for breath. He didn’t know what any of that meant. A warning and a plea. In a language, he barely grasped.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and turned away and rushed in the direction of home. His feet carried him down a well-known path while his mind rushed in speculations, questions without answers – dozens of them and not even one solid clue. There was no way to know if the cave was real; trees spoke in images that were hardly literal. But the house…now that he thought about it, it did seem familiar.

The woods were less dense around him and the magic had slowly drained from the air while he was walking and the distance to the _eternal tree_ grew. Now it was nothing but moss and trees that were barely sentient, grasping at their consciousness but being lulled to sleep by the lack of a strong magical source. Here, Stiles knew, those few who wanted to be away from the civilization resided. There were a couple of houses at the edge of town, each occupied by someone distinctly not human. There was only one, however, situated right in the middle of the woods.

“Hey!” A gruff voice called out making Stiles jump in surprise. He was so engrossed in speculations he missed a presence close behind. ”What are you doing here?”

Stiles whirled around to see who the voice belonged to.

“That’s private property!”

Stiles’ eyes skirted over the figure of the stranger briefly, assessing possible danger. And then, once again, with more intent. The man was obviously trying to seem menacing, rocking a leather jacket and an impressive scowl. He also had a pair of truly incredible eyebrows – pulled together into a scowl. A rather handsome face and a toned body certainly put together an attractive image. Stiles, who had never been deterred by hostility of strangers, appreciated the sight.

First nice thing to happen this morning, he thought.

“Not really!” He shouted in reply.

The man’s scowl deepened; those eyebrows sliding lower and even closer together – impressive feat, Stiles decided.

“See that tree?” He pointed at a twisted birch halfway between him and the man. “That’s the border!” Stiles explained cheerfully. “While you might be on private property, I – am not!”

There was no one who knew about this forest more than Stiles. And he wasn’t above rubbing it into other’s face.

He was sure, if the man could frown even harder, he would. Alas, it seemed he had reached his limit.

“Well then stay on your side.” The stranger replied gruffly, if somewhat sulkily.

“Wasn’t planning on crossing, bro,” Stiles reassured with a grin. Somehow, irritating strangers always felt good. Handsome ones – even better. That might also have been the main reason for Stiles’ perpetually single life. When your flirting could be interpreted as insults, there were not many people willing to tolerate it. Despite the fact that Stiles insistently called it banter. _Banter._

 “So…” He trailed off, expectant, when the man stayed silent. The glaring was becoming a bit unnerving.

The man gave a sharp jerk of his head, probably hinting that it was time for Stiles to scatter. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him, mildly irritated but mostly curious. However, he was almost running late for lunch with his dad. He could pick a fight with the guy later.

Stiles gave a small wave and a huge grin and hurried away; the dirt road should not be far away. After all, it was the one that led to the Hale house. He would follow it to his jeep, and then, later, he would go and dig up some information on Derek Hale.

 

* * *

 

‘Digging’ in that particular case involved more stalking and gossip than actual research. Stiles knew about the Hale family – everyone did. A big family in a big house, a horrible tragedy and only four survivors. Stiles, however, knew even more than ordinary people did. He knew that Hales were werewolves, the whole lot of them. They lived peacefully in Beacon Hills, protecting the forest, until a crazed out hunter decided they were incarnation of evil. All that had happened when Stiles wasn’t yet ‘in the loop’ on all the supernatural in town. Only when his best friend was bitten and then turned, did he become aware that the world was much wider and much weirder than originally thought.

“So…Deaton has a new intern, huh?”

Stiles crossed out a ‘Werewolf Super Curse?’ from his list of possibilities and glanced at the screen. Scott, miles away, but looking pretty good through his shitty dorm room Wi-Fi connection, was scowling.

“He is more of an…assistant now?” Stiles scrunched up his nose. “I mean, how long can you be an intern until it stops being pathetic? Dad says he’s been at the clinic for years now.”

Scott hummed – a noncommittal sound that totally gave away how bothered he was by that piece of news. Stiles fought really hard not to roll his eyes, “Apparently, he’s still no good.”

That seemed to placate Scott, who shrugged – totally conspicuously by the way, and switched topics. “Any luck with your, uh, investigation?”

“I’ve got a couple of leads,” Stiles admitted listlessly.

Scott latched onto his lack of enthusiasm instantly and made a soft sympathetic sound. “That bad?”

A list on his desk was full of crazy scribbles, an idea after idea discarded and thrown away. The visions could not provide a clear picture and any time he tried communicating with the forest, it was just…off. It could give him nothing solid. Not that usually he got a nice little message describing a problem and a proper way to deal with it; quite the opposite. The dreams had always been obscure, a metaphor, an intent, but they never failed to shove him in the right direction. This time, he was lost.

Every time a new vision came, it was such a mess of images and impressions. Stiles didn’t like pondering on why. Even though, his treacherous mind whispered, it felt like a cry for help of someone on the very edge. Like someone thrashing in agony. Rambling cry for help.

Despite that, Stiles couldn’t feel the source of _wrongness_ in Beacon Hills. It was confusing, and also terrifying.

“What is wrong, exactly?” Scott asked tentatively when Stiles went silent for too long.

“There is this…” Stiles grabbed at the air, trying to come up with proper explanation. “This feeling of wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yeah, like…” His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the desk. “Like something is terribly rotten in your room and it smells like hell but you cannot find it anyway.”

“O-kay,” Scott intoned. A smile was threatening to spill so he bit on the inside of his cheek to hold it off. Stiles, taking pity on him, laughed first.

“I don’t even know,” he admitted, shoving himself back in the chair. It rolled away from the desk, muting Scott’s laughter on the other end. “You coming back for the summer?”

“Going on a road trip with Kira first. And then home,” Scott replied. Laughter died down and his expression turned worried. Stiles knew what was coming but he didn’t get a chance to wave away his friend’s concern before Scott was talking again. “Listen, I’m sorry I can’t be there. I wish I could help.”

“No worries,” Stiles waved his hand at the screen. “It’s my magical forest problems. You have fun on your trip!”

Scott’s face cleared, “See you in a couple of weeks!”

Stiles turned off the chat before the sight of Scott’s beaming face could become too much for him to bear and he’d dive straight into merciless teasing. He was happy for his best friend. And he was fine doing this on his own. Even when Stiles first discovered the connection to the forest, his draw to its magic, it was his own thing. It had always been just his thing.

And now Stiles need to do some stalking. Just on his own.

 

* * *

 

So, Derek Hale was a pretty boring guy.

He totally did not live up to the expectations his badass leather jacket ignited. Stiles counted that as a disappointment.

Since early morning when Stiles caught sight of him at the farmer’s market, he had been going through town (leaving his car by the mall and taking a walk), picking up groceries (surprisingly a big amount of healthy foods), stopping by a bookstore (browsing but not buying, also, unexpectedly, stalling near the fiction section), and settling in a coffee shop (a boring black coffee but with a delicious looking blueberry scone). He seemed a perfectly ordinary werewolf, not showing a shred of violent tendencies; all the while Stile managed to get really annoyed trice for one morning. But most importantly, Hale didn’t have a smell of rot clinging on to him. That, more than anything, made Stiles think that this lead too was going to pitter out.

Or, get him in trouble.

“You’ve been following me.” A stern voice accused and Stiles choked on his last bite of the blueberry scone. As he coughed frantically, one hand pressed to his chest, the owner of the voice stepped from behind the bench into his line of sight. Curse him for losing his concentration and turning around for a moment to enjoy the delicious pastry. But, you know, not really curse…Whatever.

Still wheezing, Stiles waved his free hand in an abortive motion. “Wasn’t following,” he managed to gasp out.

Derek Hale rolled his eyes and brought his hand down to land a solid pat on Stiles’ back. It almost knocked him off the bench, but it also helped dislodge a stray piece of scone stuck in his throat. Stiles gulped air vigorously while Hale watched him in distrust.

“No idea what you are talking about,” Stiles tried again once his lungs didn’t feel like burning.

Derek Hale’s unimpressed stare _was_ impressive. Stiles tore his eyes from arms with very nice biceps crossed in front of a nicely muscled chest and met those angry eyes. He gave a sheepish smile but it had no effect what so ever. “Okay,” Stiles conceded, crossing his own arms. “Maybe I was following you.” So, probably, he could not pull off intimidation just as good, especially with Hale looming over the bench. Stiles sprung to his feet, pleased to note they were almost of the same height.

“Why?” Hale pressed when the admission of guilt wasn’t followed by an explanation of any sort.

Stiles gave a shrug, outwardly calm. Remembered that werewolves could hear people’s heartbeats and panicked even stronger. “I think you are hot!” It came more like a question, squeaked over the sound of his thundering heart. The humiliation, however, might have been worth it for the look of sheer confusion on Hale’s face. His frown loosened, giving way to a perplexed expression that was quickly turning into one of alarm. That, Stiles was used to. People quite often looked alarmed in the face of his assumed insanity. “I thought you were very attractive and so…”

“So you decided to stalk me?” Hale’s tone turned into cold fury so suddenly it took Stiles a moment to comprehend the change. He knew he had said a wrong thing but there was no turning back now.

“Kinda,” he muttered lamely.

Hale’s eyes, true anger in them now bore holes in his skull. He was looming in earnest now, not just trying to project hostility. Stiles felt dangerous vibes like an aura around him. “Get lost,” Hale growled, stabbing his finger in Stiles’ chest. It felt like a punch. “And don’t ever come close to me or my sister again.”

Stiles felt like pointing out that Cora Hale was of no interest to him but swallowed the words in favor of a terse nod.

“Good.” Hale snarled and stalked away.

Stiles might have dropped it if not for a flash of electric blue as Hale turned away. Same eyes as the dream showed him. There was no doubt about it: Hale was the wolf from the vision.

 

* * *

 

The Hales were, originally, protectors of the land. During his early days as a missionary to a magical forest Stiles had read enough ancient texts to know that the family had been living in Beacon Hills for centuries and dealt with supernatural threats in the region. Sometimes they retreated, hunted down and chased out of their homes, but they always came back.

‘Noble’ – Deaton called them. And, while Stiles did not completely trust the man, he did believe Deaton’s knowledge of history. His office at the animal clinic was filled with old volumes on magic and supernatural.

“Everyone could be a warlock,” Deaton had once said as he laid down the books on his desk, offering Stiles a choice. “But it is a difficult and dangerous craft that requires patience and caution. If you are not careful,” and there his dark eyes slipped to Stiles who was running his fingers over a leathery cover; the book was decorated with golden cursive – an unfamiliar language running down its spine. “You might lose yourself.”

Stiles frowned, a question ready on his lips, but Deaton had already slipped into his lighter persona, gently tugging the book from Stiles’ unresisting fingers and slipping another one into his hand instead.

“This is a tome on history of magic,” he had explained. “It will help you understand the flow of magic in Beacon Hills.” At the time, it seemed strange to Stiles that such an old book would hold the information about his boring old town.

He knew better now. He knew that Deaton ran a magic shop in his clinic, offering goods and services alike. He didn’t know how old Deaton was, but he knew that the craft ran in his family; Deaton’s sister once dropped by Beacon Hills to wreak some havoc. It turned out fine in the end, but Stiles would forever remember the sight of two magical siblings, their power tangible in the air.

He learned of vampires and werewolves, of banshee and fey, and that he did not fit anywhere even in a magical community. That was fine though, Stiles had a whole new world opened up just for him. It was magic. It was wonder. He was eager to learn about it as much as possible. Deaton’s library was just the thing to start.

Maybe, he considered, it could also help him out with the current problem.

“Wrongness, you say?” Deaton intoned thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. “That is a vague explanation.”

“I know.” Stiles threw himself into a chair in frustration. “There is nothing solid.”

He had tried retelling his dreams in detail but the images would not fit into one picture; he was only sure of the feeling the forest projected, but describing that was even harder. He should go back, look from more clues, hope for more visions, but that had never been his type of approach. Waiting.

Stiles’ mind buzzed with ideas – each of them false. If only he understood what this new threat was…

“There are some spells to attract darkness that can give off such a feeling. Especially to someone who is connected to the earth as much as you are,” Deaton commented mildly.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Stiles sighed. “Still leaves way too many possibilities. What spell? More importantly, who is casting it?”

“Can your connection provide any answers?”

Stiles shrugged and reached for a book Deaton put on the table for him. It was fairly new, compared to most other things in the man’s collection. Golden lettering on the front proudly proclaimed it to be a _Grimoire_ ; pages were crisp and white, with printed text, colorful illustrations and numerous diagrams. It looked more like a textbook. Stiles lifted an eyebrow in question.

“It’s a new edition,” Deaton commented with a smile. Then frowned and looked around. “I can’t quite find the original version.” That was no wonder – Deaton’s study was a mess of books and scrolls.

Stiles leafed through it with interest and packed it carefully into his backpack. He would have to go over it meticulously later. “Anything else useful?” He asked hopefully.

Deaton glanced around the office once more, eye scanning the bookshelves. “Start with that one; I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.”

“Alright then,” Stiles grinned at the warlock as he pushed himself out of the chair. “Thanks!”

He slipped out of the room, fully intent of letting himself out, and bumped into someone in the dark corridor. “Sorry,” Stiles muttered.

The person stepped back, echoing the apology mechanically, and giving a small nod in hello. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting Stiles recognized Matt Daehler. Throwing an awkward hello, he sidestepped the man, almost gagging on the overpowering smell of perfume the guy was wearing, and rushed out of the clinic.

 

* * *

 

The book proved to be somewhat helpful. Stiles had made notes of a couple of spells that drained magic, however it didn’t bring him closer to finding the perpetrator. It seemed, his best chance of finding anything solid would be to catch this person in the act. As they were idling for the moment Stiles decided on another trip to the forest.

It was already getting dark when he parked the car in his old spot and stepped under the canopy of the trees. They greeted him as an old friend; he ran his fingers over the branches as he went, maintaining a physical connection – as much a hello as the way to get a better reading. The magical flow was clean but the forest seemed troubled. Anticipating.

It made Stiles’ skin prickle unpleasantly.

He was tempted to reach for a flashlight; however, it wasn’t dark enough and he was cautious of transmitting his location for everyone to see. Always a two-way street – shining a light in a dark forest.

Stiles climbed over the ravine, entering the sentient part and paused. Some of the spells he noted from the book required plants that only grew further east, far from the _eternal tree_ as it sucked the magic from the earth and never allowed supernatural flowers in the vicinity come to full bloom. That might turn to be a lead he needed to move the investigation forward. Or, who the hell was he kidding, just to start it.

He veered sharply to the right, struggling through bushes of blackberries; small thorns snagged at his hoody and pulled at his backpack, but he managed to escape without any scrapes. The trail opened up to him right after, growing wider as he moved forward. A thought flashed in the back of his head: memory of a cave and a stream. It disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving wondering if it had been his own thought from the beginning.

He came upon a wolfs bane flower first. Unassuming, a whole flock hid behind a raised tree root; those innocent looking blue flowers. Without much thought, Stiles reached down and grabbed a flower, shoving it into a pocket of his hoody. Next was a small field of redwood sorrel, pale pink flowers peered up at him from among heart-shaped leaves in the waning light of the day. Those were mostly used in healing draughts.

In this part, the trees grew further apart, giving way to sprawling bushes. Soon they would be ripe with berries – a splatter of color on flourishing green. Most of them – deceptively appealing, holding poison in their juices. Some – healing, but truly hideous to taste. Stiles had no need for them but he knew, soon those in town dabbling in witchcraft would come and gather them with care and grind them and mix them and dry them to use in potions and spells. There were not many witches in Beacon Hills, more supernatural creatures than simple humans practicing things they knew nothing about.

Deaton was old and wise; and even though Stiles still feared the man could bring the Apocalypse, at least he would not do so on accident. That was a strangely comforting thought.

A small meadow opened up before him; Stile’s steps faltered. Where there should have been a sea of yellow was merely green with dirt footsteps unceremoniously stomping all over the place. Not even a tiny flower left. Bleeding heart, that flower was called. Its fern-like leaves still sprawled graciously but there were no petal in sight.

“That’s not good.” The words left him in a rush – a soft urgent whisper under his breath.

Stiles slid the backpack from his shoulder and leaned it on a nearby tree at the edge of the meadow. He knew what kind of flower should have been there: he had seen its intricate drawing in Deaton’s book just hours before. Its petals, boiled over until they lost their bright color, were used for syphoning energy. Often, they were used to treat curses; sometimes they were ingredients for dark spells. Whoever took them was stealing the magic from the very earth to bring about something dark, something dangerous. And with the number of flowers they now had it could be truly destructive.

Stiles stepped up to look at the footprints more closely. Nothing unusual about them, simple hiking boots any sensible person would wear to the forest. He snapped a picture of the print anyway. A couple of branches were snapped on the other side, whoever it was came from the opposite direction. They chose a safer path, preferring to circle the forest by car, probably, and entering there so they would not have to cross the magical land. This person must know how potent with supernatural energy the forest was. They also knew not to antagonize it.

Stiles crossed the meadow, minding his steps to examine the trail. Hikers rarely came by it, since it was rocky and not particularly scenic; still it was known to happen. It was curios, if the person knew exactly where they were going or did they stumble upon the flower accidentally. Stiles was ready to bet on the former.

Something else caught his attention next – the only flash of yellow just at the edge of the field. For a second he thought it might be a flower, hidden in the shadow of a pine tree it might have gone unnoticed. But as he stepped closer and peered down at it, it turned out to be something else. A piece of paper maybe…

Stiles crouched over it, biting on his lip in thought. The cheerful yellow, lighter than the color of flower petals seemed familiar. He reached for it, slowly, tentatively but before his fingers can brush the crumpled paper he froze. A shiver ran down his spine. A flicker – and it seemed like the power went out, the already weak light dimmed, leaving the whole world bleak. It drained color from the greens, turning them grey.

A whisper reached his ears, dull echo of a cry.

Stiles jerked back. Whirled around to see the world around him: far away in the direction he came from sentient trees were thrashing wildly, he could feel the ghost of their rage. Someone was tapping into the energy source guarded by them. Draining it for magic, taking it to themselves, _devouring it_. Stiles struggled to his feet; the weight of the spell like an iron blanket on his shoulders.

A bird cried – once, the shrill sound resonated over the forest. Grass shivered under his feet, the earth itself vibrating under the strain. He grabbed the backpack and slung it over his shoulders on the run, dashing among the tree trunks. It was a long way to the car, every second – a choice: to be quick or to be careful. It was dark, he couldn’t see the path. Stiles knew it like the back of his hand, all the turns and grooves, but random stones and tree roots threatened to trip him at every turn. There was no time to get the flashlight.

Stiles ducked under a tree brunch, careening straight into a bush of wild roses. He gave a cry as the spikes bit into his skin but struggled forward until he was back on the path. A moment to catch his breath – air felt tangy and disgustingly sweet. It clung to his lungs, chocking. He coughed, trying to get rid of it.

And then he stilled, listening. A hush fell over the forest. The anguish still seeped into his veins but there was no sound. Stiles’ eyes ran over the dim world franticly. Searching. Searching.

There.

A dark shape among the trees – watching him from a distance.

Stiles held his breath, paralyzed with fear.

He had a met a fair share of supernatural creatures, both friendly and not; but the forest had always been on his side. A last line of protection between him and all the horrible that lurked in the night. This time he didn’t have the reassuring hum of the forest’s magic at his back.

The shape shifted, gradually moving closer, half hidden among the pines. His weak human eyes could not make anything of it in the dark. Two points of blue fire flashed and Stiles stumbled back, away from it. It wasn’t the pure azure of the lights of _eternal tree_. It was dark and deep blue and it tracked his movements as he slowly backed off. They grew bigger in one sudden leap. Stiles cried out in alarm and almost fell over backwards, catching himself with a hand on a pile of rocks at the side. When he looked up from a silly attempt to make sense of the ground under his feet, the shape neared and resolved into a person. Irrationally, Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief.

He sagged against the stone; his palms were stinging where the numerous scratches crisscrossed the skin.

“What did you do?”

The voice was familiar; it made Stiles tense again.

The question was repeated, impatiently, with more force put into the words. A demand with a threat behind it. Derek Hale stepped from the shadow to where Stiles could have a good look at him.

He was…he wasn’t wearing a shirt, that’s what Stiles’ mind decided to get stuck on first. Only low riding jeans that were dirty and torn. His chest was scratched and dirty too, all those muscles glistening with sweat. Stiles would have been more appreciative of the sight of not for the murderous expression Hale wore on his face.

“What.” Hale growled into his face. “Did. You. Do?”

Stiles leaned back as far as he could, away from all the anger and ferocious intent. “Nothing.” He probably could have put more conviction into the word but Stiles was starting to feel faint, despite the fact that his heart kept hammering away at a rate that was probably unhealthy.

The wolfs bane – remembered through the haze in his mind. Reached out into the hoody with a trembling hand but Hale was fast and knocked the flower from his weak hold. Stiles watched hopelessly as it got lost in the foliage, too far to have any serious effect.

Hale snarled at him; fangs flashed right before Stiles’ nose. Sharp and menacing. “Seriously, dude.” He found some strength to push a hand at Hale’s chest but the werewolf didn’t budge against the weak press o his palm. “I wasn’t doing anything. This,” he jerked his chin upwards. “This in not me.” Weakness was seeping into his bones and Hale’s looming presence wasn’t helping his concentration. Stiles feared the werewolf might throw him to the ground demanding answers but Hale regarded him with calculating eyes for a moment and then, thankfully, stepped away.

“Who then?”

“Well,” Stiles couldn’t catch his breath even though the immediate danger had passed. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He hoped he added enough acid to his tone.

He hoped Derek Hale regretted grabbing him so roughly.

He hoped Derek Hale would not leave him in the middle of the forest as he passed out.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was feeling light. The gravity of the darkness had lifted, leaving him air-light and floating. He was warm and sleepy and would have happily drifted back into unconsciousness if not for the nagging thought that he should not be so comfortable. That wasn’t right. Foliage had nothing in common with soft cushions. Stiles peeked through half-closed eyelids at the room he was in. So, Derek Hale was a decent guy who actually carried him out of the forest and to the civilization.

The man in question appeared in his line of vision, scowling down at Stiles’ prone form. The sofa was comfortable and the blanket kept him warm and deceptively safe. He so didn’t want to deal with Hale’s scowl.

“I know you are awake,” Hale commented drily.

Stiles groaned, loud and obnoxious, and dragged himself to a sitting position. The blanket still snugly wrapped around his shoulders served as a protection from the man’s hard stare. At least he wasn’t glaring anymore.

“What were you doing in the forest?”

So, straight to the point them. The broken record with a label that read ‘Derek Hale’ in large gothic-rock letters only knew one tune. Love this line!

“I’m assuming the same thing you were doing,” Stiles decided it might be better to lead with the truth. “Looking for the person who was doing…that.”

Hale pressed his lips together. “Why?”

“’Cause it’s my job? Kinda…” The blanket fell from his shoulders when he shrugged. Stiles reached to grasp it before it would slide off completely.

“Your job,” Hale echoed flatly.

Stiles gave another shrug. He was reluctant to lay it all on the table; but the evening, however disastrous it had turned out, allowed him to understand one thing: Derek Hale wasn’t the perpetrator. He did not look like the person standing at the eye of the storm, like Stiles he was lost and confused and full of fierce desire to catch whoever was harming the forest.

“I’m like…” Stiles spread his fingers and gave a vague wave, looking for right words. None of them fit.  “Forest’s little helper.”

Hale opened his mouth as if to give another of his unimpressed ‘whats’ but thought better of it and pressed his lips shut. Waited Stiles out.

“I help keep the flow of magic steady.” Stiles forced out in a rush and watched comprehension drawn on Hale’s face. Those eyes were too understanding for someone who might hear about this for the first time. “Name’s Stiles by the way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hale nodded. “You can call me Derek.”

“Cool. Why? Are we friends now?”

“No. But I am going to help you.”

 

* * *

 

Derek Hale was pretty knowledgeable when it came to magical scene on the whole but really fucking blind to supernatural situation in Beacon Hills. Seriously, how can you not notice that a vampire was running your credit card for gas at the station? Earl wasn’t particularly good at hiding; humans merely thought he was weird. And Alice? That girl had flowers blooming all year round.

“Well, I don’t pay that much attention to people,” Derek growled at him when Stiles helpfully pointed out everything from the above and more.

“You are a total shut-in you mean,” Stiles chirped back, not fazed by the growl in the slightest. Now that he knew Derek a little better there was no fear of the man left. Scary werewolf or not, Derek was good at his core and his reactions to Stiles’ ribbing was very satisfying.

“I just don’t like socializing.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles retorted airily. Glanced at Derek, “Is your sister the same?”

Derek’s fingers tightened over the wheel minutely; it was so brief Stiles would not have noticed the reaction had he not been looking for it.

“No,” Derek replied after a pause. He was staring resolutely ahead at the road. “Cora is more sociable.”

“Oh, I would love to meet a friendly Hale,” Stiles sent him a quick smile to smooth over the joke.

Derek didn’t reply. They drove past the animal clinic, Stile’s gaze lingered on the brightly colored ad in the window. A couple of months before someone had persuaded Deaton that the clinic would benefit from a more cheerful look. The same person offered to print out a colorful display for the front windows and Deaton, probably completely at a loss, agreed. He had come to his senses pretty quickly so only one of the windows spotted a bright yellow poster in it. It did have a more…cheerful look. Also, kinda neurotic. They even got some merch with it: pens and notepads, and some flyers, all in the same crazy color.

“Take a turn here,” Stiles commanded at the next intersection. “Next block. See the purple door? That’s it.”

The car slid to a stop smoothly. It was shiny black Camaro, sleek lines and clean paintjob, and it fit Derek perfectly. Hot with a side of dangerous. Stiles watched Derek’s shoulders in that leather jacket as he strode ahead into the shop.

“Just for the record,” Stiles muttered as he caught up. “I wasn’t stalking you because I thought you were hot. I mean, you are, but…” Stiles flailed helplessly at Derek’s flat stare. “Anyway, just thought you should know.” He added quickly and ducked into the magic shop.

Scent of burning incense hit them hard; Stile’s eyes watered from the smoke. He heard Derek cough, his werewolf nose no doubt assaulted by the heavy smells, and used the moment of hesitation to step around him and to the counter. Through the veil of smoke an image of a woman appeared, her smile open but a dark glint in her eyes.

“Hello.” She appraised Stiles with a quick glance and turned to give Derek a lingering look. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh…” Stiles tried to draw her attention back.

Derek sneezed. She snapped to attention with frightening efficiently, throwing her long dark hair over her shoulder and leaning over the counter in concern. She was playing it up a little too much, Stiles decided.

“Are you alright?” She asked sweetly.

“He’s fine,” Stiles snapped. Slammed a sheet of paper on the counter. “I have a list. These ingredients. Do you have them?”

She pursed her lips but picked up the list. Her eyes skimmed over the items, frown lines deepening the further she read.

“I’ll have to check,” she said distractedly and disappeared into the back room.

Stiles caught a backwards glance at Derek who was glaring at everything in sight, and leaned over the counter to have a look at the cashier’s desk. It would take Miss Blake some time to figure out if she needed the ingredients he listed, some of them so rare they only surfaced on the market once in a century. The last two items on the list however – quite easily acquired but if Stiles’ guess was right, she wouldn’t have them also. Those were needed to prepare a spell he had marked down in the Grimoire. Going by how many flowers their perp had gathered, he must have bought out the shop for all the other ingredients.

And while the woman was checking over the back room he could snoop around a little. Jennifer Blake was a hedge witch; no heritage, no proper tutelage. She discovered magic all on her own and dabbled in spells and potion making occasionally. She can’t have  been very good at it, not to mention that it is incredibly difficult to study magic without some sort of guidance, so at some point she opened up a magic shop, selling items that rarely held any big power but amused the citizens who enjoyed believing in the occult. One actually useful side of her business: the ingredients for potions which she acquired from all over the Sates and sold at unreasonably high prices.

She was an unlikely suspect: Miss Blake didn’t have resources to learn such a powerful spell, but Stiles was nothing if not thorough.

He rifled through the papers on her small desk, and went around the shop, checking out items on the shelves. Her small book collection, personal library on the top shelf and books for selling on lower three, was small and not particularly impressive. Stiles had been expecting her to come across something with true potential, but it seemed that wasn’t happening. At least, not yet.

Derek was watching closely and, just as Stiles was peering under a bird skull on the top shelf, whispered urgently. “She’s coming back.”

Stiles snapped back to a standing position so fast he almost knocked over the umbrella stand. Derek gripped at his elbow until Stiles caught his balance.

Miss Blake was glancing from him to the list and back again. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the ingredients you need.” She sounded disturbed, not apologetic. “These three, definitely not.” She pointed up at Stiles’ impossible choices. “These two…I’m out of stock. I can order some for you?”

“No, that’s fine,” Stiles shot out. He got everything he needed. “Thanks. We gotta…” He jerked his thumb at the door and backed out of the shop. “Bye!”

Stiles darted out the door, happy to breathe some clean air again. A rattle of a wind chime indicated Derek following.

“What did that get us?” He asked; perpetually on the edge of irritation.

“Well, now I know for sure what spell our guy is using,” Stiles announced smugly. “It’s a shame Miss Blake doesn’t keep her books in proper order. Could have got a name from her also.”

Derek held the door open for him as Stiles fell into the front seat of the Camaro.

“What kind of spell?”

Stiles threw his head back and heaved a sigh, “A very bad one.”

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t seem particularly surprised when I told you I was guarding the forest,” Stiles mused out loud, lounging on Derek’s couch.

The Hale house was huge, enough to fit a big family, he thought bitterly. But only a couple rooms had been renovated after the fire. Living room and the kitchen held no traces of the horrible tragedy but the rooms on the top floors, all except Derek’s, still carried definitive burn marks. Derek’s room however was clean of char but bare. Grey walls, wooden floor and a mattress.

Derek was still renovating, he had said when Stiles first commented on it. Apparently, he had come back to Beacon Hill for that purpose: to put the house in order, make it a place for a family again. Cora came with him, helping out when she could, but she went back to New York quite often. Derek said he didn’t mind staying alone. Stiles almost believed him.

“It’s not a new concept for me.”

Stiles wasn’t expecting a reply, especially one that sounded so earnest. He craned his neck over the armrest to glance at him.

Derek was standing with his back to the window, looking so out of place with the leather jacket and crossed arms against the backdrop of flowery curtains. He was staring at the floor so intently Stiles wondered what images truly stood before his eyes. There was sadness to them too but at the corner of his mouth Stiles could swear he saw beginnings of a nostalgic smile. “My mother was the guardian of the forest,” he finally admitted, his voice unusually soft. That smile turned more pronounced as he spoke. “She…she said she could talk to the trees. I didn’t really believe her.” Derek glanced at him, a glint in his eyes. Silent laughter at their new inside joke. “But we never doubted that she knew what the forest needed. Sometimes it was merely to move a few rocks around a spring to help the flow of magic, as she said. Sometimes it took battling a hostile creature.”

The Hales had been protectors of the land for centuries, but Stiles had never suspected that Talia Hale was connected to the forest same way he now was. He was stupid for not realizing it sooner: he couldn’t have been the first. Maybe in the past in every new generation there was a Hale who picked up the mantle to communicate with the magical energy of this place. Except, after Talia’s death, there were no more Hales in Beacon Hills. And so, Stiles took her place.

He wondered, often, if it was a coincidence or fate that had brought him to the forest on that day. He was helping out Scott, trying to find ways for his friend to have more control over the wolf, and to battle against a rogue Alpha at the same time. That particular time he went alone. Looking for clues, always looking for clues, he stumbled his way through the forest and came upon something he wasn’t expecting. It wasn’t the full moon but the creature was completely shifted, a huge hideous wolf that perked up at the sight of him. If not for the forest protecting him, leading his steps to the tree he later dubbed eternal, he would have been dead. But the tree protected him, shielded with its branches, hiding him in a world where no time existed.

Stiles thought he was hallucinating, maybe he already was dead, because all he could see was the bright sky and the green canopy, littered with twinkling blue lights. The tree had shown its true form to him then and he heard voices, asking for help, offering protection in return, offering a contract. Stiles agreed.

“So you know what I am?” Stiles asked, keeping their gazes locked. Derek nodded. “Alright. That makes things easier.” With that he flopped back comfortably on the sofa. “You said you wanna help. That’s cool with me.”

“Do you know who is doing…this.” The pause made it pretty clear that Derek had only a very vague idea about what ‘this’ was.

“No. I figured out the spell,” Stiles waved the list of ingredients. “But I don’t know who. They are draining the forest of its magic. That’s very dangerous.”

“That’s why you fainted? It drained you too?”

“Yeah…” Stiles was still troubled with that. The feedback had never been so strong. The energy always flowed from the forest to him, never the other way round.

Silence stretched, Stiles still stuck on that episode and Derek…who knew what Derek was thinking about. The house was quiet, only the wood creaking occasionally as it settled. A bird would chirp in the forest, wind would blow through old pipes. They were so removed from the town; peace covered the house like a veil. Stiles could hear a soft murmur of tress, troubled too but for now, calm. He slipped into dreaming.

This time there was no gradual coming of darkness; he was plunged into blackness right away, barely able to discern the shape of trees surrounding him. Their leaves shivered but there was no wind. Stiles turned and turned, trying to see.

Sound of running water separated from the common noise, growing louder. It was the spring, same one that brought him to the cave in his first dream, but its roar was maddening as if it were a waterfall. Still, he could not see it; did not understand where the sound was coming from. It was all around him, surrounding, encompassing. When it grew so loud he couldn’t bare Stiles pressed his palms to his ears and fell to his knees.

Abruptly, the sound stopped. A soft cheerful chirrup of the spring sang its melody from behind him. Cautiously, Stiles lowered his hands, turned around.

A shape. Black on black. At first, he thought it might be Derek again, felt relief that he wasn’t alone in this cursed place anymore. But the shape moved with slithering grace, so different from a wolf. Its skin glistened in the light of a pale moon hanging above. Stiles could see scales; shivered at the sound they made as the creature slithered down the tree. A tail uncurled from a top branch, swinging languidly slow.

It hissed, first low and quiet and then opening its jaws, brandishing long narrow fangs and forked tongue. Stiles pressed a sweaty palm to his heart, hoping to quiet its wild tempo. The creature’s scream resonated through the forest; its eyes fixed on him, shining in the dark. When it quieted, he knew what was coming next. Stiles turned away and run before it would leap at him. He heard creature’s paws hit the ground, another hiss and it was in pursuit.

Stiles glanced back, panicked.

And then he was jerked out of that world, the terror left behind in the dream.

Stiles gasped for breath, disoriented, until he saw Derek’s face, looking down at him in concern.

“Are you alright?” He asked urgently.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded and tried to speak. “I am now.” His voice was scratchy and throat raw as if he had been screaming. “Uh…nightmare.” He explained.

Derek narrowed his eyes at him, “Just a nightmare or…?”

“Or,” Stiles gave a terse nod. They stared each other down in silence until Stiles pushed away the covers, thus backing away Derek who was hovering over him. Sprung to his feet, acting steadier that he felt and stormed to the kitchen. Derek had no coffee in the house but maybe that was for the best; Stiles prepared himself a cup of green tea. He was allowed a moment to compose himself but as his hand wouldn’t stop shaking, making the spoon clank against the glass loudly, Derek stepped close and pressed his palm on top of Stiles’ fingers, silently asking for an explanation.

Stiles huffed, irrationally irritated for a second. “I don’t…I don’t know if your mom could actually talk to the trees but I can’t.” He glanced hopelessly at Derek. A hand around his on top of the mug was warm and gentle, presence at his side soothing. “I don’t really understand what they are saying. So, they show me. In dreams and in visions.”

“Is it always nightmares?”

Stiles was shaking his head even before Derek could finish his question. “No, no...Only when something is terribly wrong.” He pushed Derek’s hand away and took a tentative sip of his tea. He only realized they were having a moment when it was broken. Derek shuffled a step back, leaving Stiles feeling strangely bereft.

“What did you see now?”

“I’m not sure.”

Stiles watched the play of tea leaves in his cup, swirling until they reached the bottom. “A monster in the forest.” He gave a sardonic scoff. “Twice already it showed me a place. A spring, running through the foliage. It leads to a cave.”

“Is that where the person who is doing this is hiding?”

“I don’t think so. Anyway,” Stiles shrugged. “What I see isn’t always literal. It’s a metaphor.”

Derek laughed softly at his abhorred tone. “Alright. But it might not be? You’ve seen it twice, maybe we need to find it?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “Well…it might have some equivalent in the real word. But here is the thing with magic – I know the forest better than anyone and I have never seen that spring or that cave.”

“We’ll find it,” Derek replied with conviction. It seemed having a course of action suited him. “And then we’ll find our warlock.”

“And probably the horrible magical being they most likely created.”

Stiles enjoyed Derek’s terrified confusion too much to elaborate.

 

* * *

 

“So…Dad?”

John grunted to show that he was listening but didn’t look up from the paperwork. Stiles waited for a moment to see if any other noises were forthcoming and then settled onto the leather sofa in Sheriff’s office. It had a dent to perfectly accommodate him and Stiles was reminded of his high school days: being locked up in his Dad’s office for trying to sneak onto the crime scene. Again. This ratty old thing still carried his butt-print.

“If I was to try and track down a person who once visited the magic shop how would I go about it?”

The Sheriff marked something on the report he was reading and gave another grunt.

“Like,” Stiles continued. “I know they went there but I have a very approximate time frame. What would I do?”

Finally, John tore his eyes from the paper. “Magic shop?” His tone was forever long-suffering. “The one belonging to Jennifer Blake?”

“The one and only.”

Well, technically not the only. There was another ‘Magic Shop’ in town but that one was for David Copperfields, not for Dumbledores.

“There is a bank just across the street. It has a camera upfront.”

“Really?” He might put a little too much surprise into his voice.

“But you already knew that,” John pointed out. “You just want me to ask for the records. As a law enforcement officer.”

“Wow, Dad, you are so good at deductions!” Stiles grinned. Shifted his expression into one of contrition. “I really need those. Please?”

 “Is this for your magical forest thing?”

“ _Thing_? Well, thanks for the understatement.” Stiles was about to go on a full on rant when John interrupted him.

“Fine.”

Stiles gaped, speechless. That was surprisingly easy. Cautiously, he asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” John sighed and waved him away.

“Two weeks before I came home!” Stiles shouted as he bounded out of the office. So maybe he was about to have a solid lead.

 

* * *

 

“Say, do you know what Jackson is up to these days?” Stiles pitched his vice a little too high – a miscalculation that was immediately noticed by Lydia – but there was no backing away now. He raised his eyebrows against her coolly amused stare and waited. She gave a careful shrug, took a sip of her coffee, knowing full well how badly Stiles was fighting himself not to fill the silence. Just as his knee started bouncing under the table, she countered:

“How should I know?”

A groan of frustration tore from Stiles’ throat and he threw his hands in the air. “Don’t try to fool me.” He didn’t try pointing a finger in Lydia’s face even though he was very tempted.

She pursed her lips, eyes avoiding his and glancing around the coffee shop. Manicured nails tapped on the side of a china cup, more to compose herself than to annoy him. “We are not together anymore.”

“I know that.” The retort came too fast and she sent him a side-ways glare. The thing with Lydia and Jackson – it was unidentified and forever complicated, turned messier by their going away for college. But there was still something there: a truth admitted to him in Lydia’s most vulnerable moments. He hated using this, so brusquely, but Stiles was grasping at straws and hoping against hope that his next crazy idea would turn out to be a proper lead.

He had watched hours of footage from the security camera, chugging gallons of coffee to stay awake until his eyeballs felt like sandpaper from watching the grainy black and white picture for hours on end. Turned out, half the city visited Jennifer Blake’s magic shop. Both supernatural creatures and humans came by, some proudly strolling through the doors, some sneaking in while no one was watching and shrinking from the too loud wind-chime that announced their arrival. Even Deaton stopped by once, followed by Marin Morrell – a fact Stiles would have found highly suspicious if not Deaton’s assurance that his sister had no sinister motives, which was only slightly placating, and the fact that she left town the next day. Jackson too had been to the shop, skulking in the shadows and disappearing behind the purple door swiftly. Stiles put him down in the suspicious column. Unfortunately, that column also contained a dozen other names.

“I don’t believe that you haven’t met him since you came home.” Stiles turned his voice softer, genuinely sorry for bringing up the topic. “Just, please, give me something.”

Lydia glanced at him again, assessing. “He is having some trouble with the college team,” she finally gave up. Her fingers followed the glazed bright swirls on her cup as she spoke. Stiles followed the movement, mesmerized. “He is not doing so well there. It leaves him…frustrated.”

Something suggested that it was a frustration of the bad kind. One that left Jackson lashing out at everyone trying to help and that usually lead to a break up stage of his and Lydia’s relationship.

“You think he might want to try and deal with by…unconventional methods?”

Her head snapped up sharply, eyes narrowed at him in the beginning of fury. “What are trying to say?”

Stiles’ eyes held hers for a moment, a silent battle of will, before he slumped back in the comfy chair and let out a wail of despair. “I don’t know.”

Other patrons ogled his antics, curious for a moment.

“I don’t know,” Stiles repeated, softer, quieter – only for Lydia’s ears. “I’m out of options.” He admitted.

Lydia eyes him skeptically; a little tinge of disdain in her eyes sent a familiar spike of feeling through him: a need to prove her wrong, a need to show himself. Be better than he was. “I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Lydia offered loftily. “And concentrate on the task.”

Stiles was about to protest when she wiggled a manicured finger at him. “I can see you are getting distracted.” A knowing smirk curled up the corner of her bright pink lips. “I think I even know by what. Or should I say by whom?”

“I’m fully concentrated on the investigation.”

“Only when you are not leering at Derek Hale,” she shot back. She was definitely enjoying this; a little feedback for his earlier meddling.

“He is helping,” Stiles retorted sulkily, hands crossed over his chest.

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Lydia muttered happily. There was no innuendo in her words, but somehow, it made everything she said even worse. Stiles felt his ears grow hot and a blush flood his cheeks. Good thing Derek was at the Hale house, looking at what was left of his mother’s things. Hoping for key there, maybe.

“Anyway,” Lydia’s serious tone made Stiles snap back to attention. “Whatever is happening – Jackson is not a part of this.”

Stiles nodded accepting her judgment without question. And that was the end of that lead.

 

* * *

 

“There has been a murder,” the Sheriff had said. Stiles had accepted the heaviness of his tone before he actually comprehended the words.

“Who?” He asked in a weak mutter.

A memory stood up vividly in his mind: Lydia grabbing his hand as they were about to part ways. Stiles got jostled by a group of teens exiting the coffee shop but she didn’t budge. She looked him in the eyes and whispered, voice low and urgent, “I think something bad is going to happen.”

Stiles would be a complete idiot to ignore her premonitions, and still he retorted, “Something bad is already happening.”

“Something worse.”

He saw Lydia’s lips form the words, barely heard her voice over the hustle of the main street. He only felt a shiver run down his spine as she turned away and left, leaving him standing before the coffee shop windows, crowds parting around him to rush by.

“Mister Harris. The school teacher.”

“Him?” Stiles asked, incredulity taking over for the moment. “Why him?”

The Sheriff spread his arms wide, as if offering an endless source of possibilities. “We are working on that.” He knew however that he would not be able to answer the questions his son was asking.

“How?” Stiles pressed.

John heaved a sigh and Stiles knew the answer even before his father had said, “Animal attack.”

Another flash of memory – this one a dream mixed with reality. A beast in the forest, coming to life under the guidance of a dark spell. He shivered as he imagined that it wasn’t only the trees that he heard crying that night. Now, in this dream turned horror turned fantasy, he thought he heard Lydia’s voice mix in with the cacophony.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles muttered to himself. “He wasn’t a warlock. Just a chemistry teacher…Yeah, many had hated him but to do this…”

“People can be worse than you think,” John commented tiredly.

Stiles shook his head, rejecting the idea. It was something else, he knew that. The murder must be connected to the whole thing. But also, there had to be a motive. If he can figure that out, he could find the person responsible.

“I think…”

“Stiles?”

“I think I need to talk to Derek,” Stiles threw distractedly and headed for the corridor. John followed him to the door, watching with a crease between his brows, but handed Stiles the keys to the jeep. “Just be careful, alright?”

Stiles nodded and reached for the door. Then he changed his mind, turned back and gave his dad a quick hug before darting outside.

It was already after midnight when he came back home. His dad was in the kitchen, munching on a late dinner.

“Long day?” Stiles asked, his own voice low and tired. The Sheriff nodded and pushed a plate of leftovers closer to his son.

“What about you?”

“Nothing useful,” Stiles admitted dejectedly. Derek was as distraught with the news as him, but it turned out, there was nothing they could do that they had not tried before. They did check out the crime scene, when the cops had already left, but there was nothing in that parking lot safe for a stench of rot and traces of dried blood on the pavement. There was no question as to how Harris had died, what mattered was this: who sent the creature after him. Why? “How’s your investigation going?”

“It’s a little hard to comply a list of suspects when the victim had been mauled by a wild animal.” John commented drily. There were a couple of magical creatures in the Sheriff department but conducting an investigation on the sly was always complicated. “Deputy Parrish promised to look into it,” His dad added, his tone apologetic for the outburst. They both were too exhausted and frustrated for a serious conversation.

John pushed away from the counter, wiping his greasy hands on a kitchen towel. “I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles mumbled and buried his head in his hands. The marble top of a kitchen island was cold under his cheek, cooling his feverish skin. His thoughts slowed down and drifted, snippets of a dream entered his sedated mind.

_A monster. Appearing from the darkness, dragged to the surface by a call of its new master._

_Sharp fangs and hard scales._

_A prey, unsuspecting._

_Harris’s face, drained of color and panicked. But his voice still holding control while he muttered words of an incantation. His hands made the gesture but it didn’t work. So he tried again, repeated the words with a feverish dedication as the monster stalked closer._

_A scream…_

Stiles jerked upright, thrashing and almost pushing a plate to the floor. His hands shaking, he picked it up and shoved it in the freezer.

He wasn’t going to sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

While they waited for the Sheriff and Deputy Parrish to work their magic, Stiles and Derek circled the forest. It was a futile task – looking for the spring from his dream, but for some reason Derek was adamant they should at least try. Most likely, he just enjoyed having something to do. Looking for the blasted thing – it gave them purpose. Created an illusion of moving forward. He had grilled Stiles on the subject of the dream, asking for retelling again and again until Stiles got tired and made him a record.

“A mixtape for you!” He exclaimed proudly upon presenting Derek with the file. In a bored monotone, it recreated his dreams with highest level of precision. Derek was unimpressed with the comment but saved the file to his phone. It was strange: to think that Derek Hale had been listening to his voice almost nonstop for several days.

“Can you recreate your steps?” Derek asked at some point. It was inevitable; he was totally bound to come to that idea and Stiles tried to come up with a way to explain why _not_.

“Not really,” Stiles replied and hoped they could leave it at that. He was rather comfortable: sprawled on the sofa, numerous books on the floor, right where he could reach them. A notepad was balanced on his knee, cheerful yellow one stolen from the animal clinic. He tapped the pen against his lip, revising the notes he had made so far. He was hoping to track down the ingredients needed for the spell. Some of those items, the stones in particular, could emanate their own type of magical energy. If he could track it…

“Care to elaborate?” Derek snapped.

Stiles sighed, long and loud, and threw his head back. Closed his eyes against Derek’s intense look.

“The dream does not follow reality. The road I took in the vision most likely would not have a real equivalent.” Monotone. Just like on the recording. It was an explanation he barely understood himself, more a feeling than knowledge, and trying to describe it to someone else was practically impossible.

“Most likely?” Derek latched on to the weak spot.

“It’s like…” Stiles waved his hand helplessly. “The dream forest is different. It’s a manifestation. Places, landmarks, beacons,” he stressed the last word. “Would only be the same if I brought them from reality. But since the scene we are talking about was shown to me by the forest…” He shrugged. It was a terribly uncomfortable gesture to recreate from his position but he succeeded. Opened his eyes to give Derek a pointed look.

“But it still might be a real place,” Derek concluded. Completely missing the point Stiles was making. He was adorably stubborn that way. “So won’t hurt trying, right? Maybe we will find it.”

Stiles groaned and pressed the Grimoire to his face.

That’s how, three hours later they were still wondering around the forest aimlessly. Stiles had packed the book into his backpack, hoping for maybe a moment of peace to do some _real_ investigation work instead of following Derek around, battling away endless question of ‘Is this it?’ and ‘Recognize anything?’

It was ridiculous, really.  Stiles was pretty sure the spring didn’t exist anywhere other the dream version of the forest. Never mind that Derek was a _werewolf_ who could probably hear the sound of running water from miles away.

“It might be covered up by some other sounds,” Derek retorted sulkily when Stiles mentioned that.

“Sure thing, Sourwolf.” He was too annoyed about the endless pointless hike to keep the sarcasm in check.

Derek grumbled something unintelligible in return but Stiles wasn’t paying attention; the inside of his backpack was a mess and finding the notepad took a lot of concentration. He prickled a finger on a sharp pencil already and was trying to maneuver around the hard cover of the Grimoire. Finally, his fingers closed around paper and he dragged the notebook out with a victorious shout. Which in turn made it slip through his fingers and get lost in the grass.

Stiles gave a nose of distress, mostly to alert Derek that he had stopped, and dropped into a crouch. His hands dug through the low grass blades until he came upon the notebook. It fell face up, the cover bright against the dirt. Stiles paused halfway. Something was nagging at him, something obvious, fighting for his attention. An unconscious thought he couldn’t yet grasp. Small. And bright.

Bright yellow.

“Shit,” Stiles breathed out giving justice to the whole gravity of the situation.

“What?” Derek was at his side in an instant.

Stiles could only wordlessly indicate at the notepad. Derek shook his head, uncomprehending.

“You remember how I said I found something where the flowers used to be?”

Derek nodded. Of course he did, he only listened to Stile’s retelling of the story how many times…?

“I thought it looked familiar. I didn’t get a chance to have a closer look but…I knew I saw it somewhere.” Because he did. So many times. Because it was right before his eyes. All this time. “It was a flyer from Deaton’s clinic.”

 “Alan Deaton?” Derek echoed.

Stiles was still staring at the bright yellow among the green but he could hear the frown in Derek’s voice.

“You said he isn’t a threat?”

“I don’t really know much about him,” Stiles admitted, lost. “He helped me protect the land, keep order. If he is capable of doing this…”

The forest was quiet that day. It had been nothing but a mutter from far away for most of the week. The words – just an echo, unintelligible. It must have been still suffering from the drain of magic it suffered previously. Stiles wondered, what would happened if the loss of energy was too strong? Too much? Would the trees lose their voices? Would magic of this place die? It was a terrifying thought.

“What do we do now?” Derek broke through the building panic.

Confronting Deaton would be too dangerous. Stiles said as much. He couldn’t get further than that. What small power he actually did have would not be enough to take down an experience warlock.

“We’ll need help.” That seemed the only logical solution. The two of them weren’t enough. He looked up a Derek, “Do you know anyone who can join us?”

Derek’s face from below looked more angular, severe. He gave a terse nod. “I might know some…people.”

The way he said ‘people’ implied very heavily that those were not humans at all. Stiles had some friends of his own and still he wasn’t sure they could fight off a power like that. They would have to try.

His resolve restored, Stiles grabbed the damned notepad and sprung to his feet.

And then. The ground shook.

It was so surreal he would have thought it to be another dream if not for Derek’s hand on his elbow, keeping him steady.

“Shit,” Stiles breathed out with feeling.

The horizon was tilting sideways, whole world twisting into shapes, making his head spin.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice called out urgently. A grip on his elbow was painfully tight but if not for it Stiles would have lost his balance completely. It felt like a dream being torn apart, molded against its will, resisting but succumbing in the end. Except it was reality that was being reshaped.

Derek’s call was insistent, growing in volume until Stiles turned sharply, going against the spinning scenery, to fix eyes on him. The world slowed down. Derek was steady and strong against the current swiping away the trees, and that’s when Stiles realized that whatever was happening – Derek didn’t see it. The world crushed to a halting stop. Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief.

“You alright?”

Nodded against the nausea.

“You look freaked out,” Derek informed him; he tried to sound dismissive but his eyes were still creased with worry, his mouth set in a frown.

“Did you…” Stiles started and had to pause against the bile rising in his throat, took a deep breath, started again. “Did you feel anything?”

Derek peered down at him and said slowly, “Earthquake. Small. It was over quickly.”

Stiles gave a sharp nod that sent his head spinning again, but at least he knew that not everything had been a hallucination. Had it been the same way before? When he met Derek in the forest was he the only one running through the dark? What did it look like to Derek then? Questions buzzed in his mind but they were unimportant. On the forefront – an alarm screamed in his head. “He is doing it again. Deaton is draining the forest again.”

Derek straightened and looked around as if he could see immediate effects of it; or maybe he was hoping to see a sinister figure in the distance, performing an ancient ritual. He wouldn’t. But this time Stiles might find him through the flow of energy. The energy lines were warped up, taken from their natural path and turned all to flow to one place. That’s what he had seen.

“Looks like we don’t have time for that backup.”

Derek was still glancing at him strangely, not subtle at all, nervousness in every line of his face. He was probably picking up how wildly Stile’s heart was beating and the fear wafting off of him. Stiles saw him swallow, the roll of his Adam’s apple, the tightness of his jaw. Maybe he was just as scared.

“Which way?” He asked, terse.

Stiles jerked his head to the left. The forest was less dense there, pines ten times his age standing far apart but their crowns blocking the sunlight almost completely. The way they were going they would circle the _eternal tree_ at the west and come out near the swamp. Stiles felt the air grown humid but the heat didn’t have the time to dissipate yet so it was unpleasantly stuffy. The shirt clung to his back and sweat was running down his temples.

Stiles was walking first, showing the way, with Derek just a step behind. They didn’t talk. Stiles was trying to see ahead with his sad human eyes and Derek listened in for any unusual noise. They moved like that for a long time until the ground grew softer under his feet, sneakers ploughing through thick moss.

Derek’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, stopping Stiles mid-step. His left feet started feeling unpleasantly wet instantly. Stiles glanced down, wincing at the water seeping into his sock. Then turned to Derek.

“What?”

A hand was pressed to his mouth rather unceremoniously. Derek’s head was tipped to the side, eyes half-closed. With a shock of fear Stiles realized the werewolf must have heard something. Stiles’ gaze jumped around madly, looking for the source of disturbance. He wanted to take a breath but it felt like the hand at his mouth was pressing harder, constricting his air, chocking. That wasn’t true, he could still breathe through his nose, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t. The panic was suffocating.

Derek let go.  Instead, his hands settled on Stiles’ shoulders, thumbs running soothing circles. Stiles waited. Bit his tongue to stifle down a string of questions. The hand pushed – turning him around first and then urging Stiles to go.

“Run,” Derek’s grave whisper was a gust of hot breath at his already over-heated skin.

No more questions milled in his head. Stiles pushed his sneakers through the moss as hard as he could and tore his way through the forest. A growl sounded at his back – Derek. A hiss – something else. He could hear the soft dry slither as the creature snaked its way through the forest in pursuit.

Stiles grappled at the branches that obscured the way, they tore the skin of his forearms, but he pushed through. Somewhere, a coherent thought was forming. Aimlessly running away was not going to work. They needed help. They needed shelter. Needed protection.

Stiles reached back blindly, snagging Derek’s hand, and veering them sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, but followed. He didn’t even sound winded, but Stiles was already out of breath.

“Trust me!” He threw over his shoulder, unable to form a full explanation through the burning in his lungs. It’s a shame he abandoned lacrosse when he moved away for college.

Stiles vaulted over a small ravine, adrenaline giving him strength; felt Derek land heavily at his side. Derek paused, looking back.

“Come on!” Stiles urged and tugged at his hand. “Not far left.”

When Derek turned to him, his eyes were blue. A deep luminescent blue, beautiful and deadly. Before Stiles’ eyes his face rearranged itself, growing rougher, every ridge more pronounced and teeth elongating, turning into fangs.

“Go.” Derek growled through a mouth full of long pointy teeth. “I’ll keep it back.”

“Are you crazy?” Stiles shouted him in the face. Derek let go of his hand but Stiles gripped it again, fighting against the hold that was trying to shake him off.

“You need to find the warlock.”

The words were a garbled mess, spoken around those fangs, but Stiles didn’t need to understand to know their meaning. He knew what Derek was doing – what every dumb hero in a movie would. Well, Stiles was not playing that game.

“Don’t!” He pushed a finger into Derek’s face. “Just don’t!”

It was a new fear, not for himself but for Derek, that took over so suddenly and turned into rage quickly. Stiles was so not letting him do the whole martyred hero shtick.

“I’ll catch up,” Derek insisted, tugging his hand back.

Stiles was about to tell him where he could shove his heroism, when they were interrupted by a low roar. There was something very wrong with that roar – it sounded more like a hiss mixed with a growl. It made Stiles’ hair stand on end. He turned his head, slowly, to see their monster on the other side of the ravine.

It was watching them back, head turned to the side under an unnatural angle, its eyes – two burning points of gold.

Derek’s hand slipped finally through his unresisting fingers.

Stiles felt a push at the center of his chest, stumbled backwards. Watched the creature leap over the ravine.

“Derek!”

He could only watch the creature’s claws tear at Derek’s chest as they both fell to the ground. Derek struck back at the creature’s neck, sawing through the scales until the blood dripped down onto his own chest. They grappled on the ground and each time the monster tried to throw Derek off the werewolf persisted, clinging onto it and delivering a blow after blow.

“Stiles!” He forced through gritted teeth. “Run!”

Stiles startled and dashed away from the fight. Through quick breath he whispered, “Come on, Derek, don’t leave me hanging.” He hoped Derek would understand.

His foot hit a rock as he crashed through an underbrush but Stiles held back a yelp and ignored the pain. There was a crash from behind – a tree being torn from the ground. For the moment he was grateful he could not hear its pain. Footsteps thundered after and Stiles risked stealing a glance backwards. Grinned, despite the burn in his lungs and the pain in his calves, at the sight of Derek gaining on him quickly.

“I hope you have a plan,” Derek snarled through his fangs.

Stiles stifled the urge to laugh; the danger was still pressing but he felt lighter with Derek at his side.

Stiles didn’t waste his breath on a reply. He sure hoped the half-idea would work.

They entered the clearing at the same time. The dead grass crumbled under their feet and the grey dirt clung to their shoes. The center was still thrumming with energy and Stiles took it as a good sign.

“What the hell is that?” Derek stammered, slowing down abruptly but Stiles grabbed his wrist and tugged him to the tree stump.

Derek followed.

A blood-curdling hiss chased on their heels.

But Stiles wasn’t scared anymore. He felt it. The energy. The magic. It crackled like electricity in the air. It burned on his skin. Tasted sour on his tongue. He gave Derek’s hand one final tug and they stepped to the tree stump.

A veil had fallen between them and the real world.

He heard Derek’s gasp and only clasped tighter the fingers gripping his own. Stiles was looking at Derek. The shift had subsided, leaving his human features strangely vulnerable. His head was thrown back, eyes open wide in wonder. Branches of the _eternal tree_ , spider webs of them interlaced and creating incredible patterns, emerald leaves glinting in the pale blue lights of the fireflies. It was magic personified. A huge willow tree that covered them with its branches, creating a shelter from the danger of the real world.

Stiles pressed a palm to its bark, caressing the ridges with pads of his fingers – saying thank you.

“What is this?” Derek finally found his voice.

Stiles shrugged, careless, a little coy. “This is where the magic of the forest is the strongest.” It wasn’t an explanation at all, but it was hard to describe the _eternal tree_ to Derek. One must feel its secrets to understand them.

Stiles tore himself from the tree so he could turn to Derek. The wandering lights up above cast an ethereal glow onto his face, bringing out the blue of his eyes, softening his features. Derek was unguarded in his wonder, too engrossed in the tree to cover up his excitement. Stiles appreciated this little gift from the forest as well. He was painfully beautiful like that. Captivated by magic, immersed in it. In on the secret.

Their hands were still linked and either he didn’t notice or he was comfortable just like that: their palms pressed, their fingers entwined. Stiles wanted to kiss him so badly.

Derek inhaled, taking in the sweet smells that surrounded the tree. And then, he let go. Of Stiles. Of his wonder. His expression turned hard.

“What are we going to do?”

Stiles paused, bereft with no contact between them. Rubbed his forearms for warmth. He was scared of the answer. “I don’t know.”

What _could_ they do?

Derek glanced through the curtain of branches and leaves surrounding them like a dome. Through it a clearing could be seen and a forest further behind – but it wasn’t their forest. This one was golden and red, leaves burning with bright colors of autumn. They had left their dark summer behind. They would have to return to it eventually.

Sties felt a pull behind his ribcage – someone trying to get his attention. He glanced at the tree, pressed his fingers to the bark again.

He was silent for too long. Derek had already come to his own conclusions. “Alright then. Plan stays the same.”

Stiles felt a prickling in his fingers. Heard the wind rush through the crown.

“I go there,” Derek was continuing, voice hard. “Distract it, giving you a chance to get away.”

Stiles’ heart squeezed painfully. He didn’t want that.

He couldn’t let Derek go out there. Meet that monster again.

He couldn’t let Derek get hurt.

A tingle went up his wrist. Stiles sprawled his palm over the trunk. Warmth seeped into his skin, traveling through his veins, spreading around his body. He closed his eyes against a flash of light, concentrated on letting the energy in.

He should be strong. He had to protect Derek. He had to protect the forest.

Stiles accepted the power into his own body, opened his eyes to see it glow through the veins. Like tree roots it spread and wrapped him in a warm energy. In power that he could wield.

Through the hum in his ears Stiles heard Derek call his name; again and again with growing urgency. But Derek didn’t dare touch. Stiles could feel the echo of his thoughts: worry and fear and _hope_. Just a faint tune of it, fighting through the anguish.

“Stiles?” Derek called, just once more he told himself, softly.

“Derek.” Stiles retorted and let go of the tree. He smiled.

The hope bloomed to something more pronounced, a warm glow in Derek’s chest. It was clouded with mistrust that dissipated as Stiles promised:

“It will be alright.”

With that Stiles whirled on his heels – the curtain of the willow’s branches drew to the sides to let him pass. Behind it was summer night. Glowing golden orbs lurked in the dark behind the trees. It bared its fangs at him but stayed away, cautious. Maybe even scared.

Derek stepped out after him, reluctant.

Stiles heard the trees sing a greeting at him and for the first time he knew exactly what they were saying. Following their call, he crossed the clearing. The monster from the shadows waited, watching him with weary eyes. It snarled when he turned away and tried to lash out but Derek was at his side in a second, throwing it off. The roar that escaped his animal throat was deafening. He found a new strength in this power too, hope and even confidence. Stiles reach out to touch him, to press a hand to his shoulder, slide it down his arm, but got distracted by the sight of his own arms. Veins glowing blue and white crossed his skin, its luminescence lightening the night. Fireflies danced around his splayed fingers – a result of natural magic, its constant companions.

“I know where we need to go,” he said to Derek. An afterthought, his mind still fascinated with the beautiful dance.

“Can you defeat him?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head. He couldn’t fight Deaton; as an experienced warlock, the man knew many spells and tricks and Stiles would be no match for him even with the raw power cursing through his veins. “I can cut him off.”

To restore the balance he needed to stop the flow of magic and redirect it to its original route. That, he could do.

“It will be alright,” he promised once more and took a step, crossing the tree line.

Voices were louder here, all so different: encouraging and suffering, cursing him and pleading for help. A whisper of them settled on his skin but he shook it off, concentrated on the task. He remembered the dream. A picture, so familiar, stood before his mind. From afar a clutter of a forest spring grew into existence and splashed at his feet. Stiles shivered from the cold.

“Is it…?” Derek drifted off, unsure how to continue.

Stiles understood anyway. Faintly, he could hear an echo of Derek’s own thoughts and feelings.

“Let’s follow the spring,” Stiles suggested cheerfully and headed downstream.

It was the same as in the vision. Its twists and turns, ducking under a rock and resurfacing near a tree root, clear water ringing merrily. It led him through parts of the forest that didn’t exist. At least not at that location. At least not at that time. Derek followed, step after step. And the creature still lurked in the shadows after them.

A grim procession they were, strange and unbelievable: creatures of magic, of legend.

The spring circled a ghost berry bush and ran away into another clearing. Stiles stepped from under the canopy and into the moonlight.

The night had chased away the day already but the sky was clear and a crescent moon shone down on them.

There was no cave. But there was a boulder and leaning against it, a figure with its back to them. The monster that followed them slithered around the trees and rushed to its master. It bared its fangs at them but no sound came from its horrid maw.

Stiles had brought his own light with him and that, if not the surge of magic that followed him, made the stranger notice them. Except when they turned it wasn’t Deaton’s face they saw.

“Uh…” Stiles stared dumbly.

“Who is that?” Derek whispered a question, confused.

“Matt? Matt Daehler?” Too stunned to hold back Stiles exclaimed. “How the fuck can it be you?”

Matt, his face clear now that he stepped out of the shadow of the boulder, was frowning. “What is that supposed to mean, Stilinski?”

Stiles gestured wildly, helplessly, sending the fireflies scattering. Lost for words, he forgot for a moment what brought him here.

“What, you thought I didn’t have it in me? To do this?” Matt’s mocking tone brought him back to the present. In his hand was a book, a volume that looked ancient but with a picture on the cover seemed familiar. Stiles squinted at it, trying to remember.

“This old thing?” Matt waved the book in indication. A laughing undertone to his every word was really grating on Stiles’ nerves. “I borrowed it from Deaton. Well, when I say borrowed…” He shrugged and grinned maniacally. That’s when it hit Stiles. It was the same book he had – true old edition that Deaton could not find. Matt had stolen it from under the warlock’s nose. “Who did you think it was?” Matt asked, humoring them. Playing with the food, except he didn’t realize yet that the food was ready to fight back.

“Certainly not the small fly you are,” Stiles retorted.

Derek growled a warning under his breath – a suggestion not to aggravate a person who was seriously intent on killing them, but Stiles waved him off, unconcerned.

“How do you even know about magic?” He taunted.

Matt’s gaze hardened, sharp lines of his face turned his features ugly with fury. “You think I was working for Deaton for fun?”

“Um…I thought it was for a steady income?”

“I was trying to get to his library for years now. I finally succeeded and the first book I stole,” he waved the old tome again. It was crumbling in his hands from such treatment. “Gets me this gem.”

“A spell to drain power,” Stiles clarified. Pleading with Matt was a futile task but he felt obligated to try. “It’s a dark spell.”

Matt shrugged. He didn’t yet know what a true darkness was.

“It’s hurting the forest.”

Matt grinned. He didn’t care.

“It will drain all the magic of this place. It would destroy Beacon Hills as we know it.”

Matt stared back, eyes cold; he didn’t care about supernatural creatures that leaved in Beacon Hills. It was of no concern to him that they were suffering the decline of magic too.

“Why did you kill Harris?”

“He refused to teach me,” Matt shrugged. “You didn’t know, did you? He was a shitty warlock but he was genius at potions. He thought I was too stupid to learn anything. Well, he doesn’t think so now.” A hollow laugh rang over the clearing.

Stiles had nothing else to say.

A monster’s tail coiled around Matt’s legs, the creature hissed, sensing its master’s excitement. It grew bold and in the next moment lunged at them. Derek ducked around him, meeting the monster halfway and throwing it to the side, pinning it to the ground. Stiles jerked to help him but was stopped by Matt’s laughter.

“My pet is stronger than yours,” Matt taunted.

“That’s it, Daehler,” Stiles warned, striding across the clearing. “You are getting your ass kicked.”

Matt’s lips were still upturned in laughter when Stiles’ fist caught him in the jaw. He stumbled, wide eyes looking back in surprise as he pressed a hand to his lip. Blood slipped between his fingers.

Matt lashed back with magic. Stiles felt it hit him and stumbled half a step back but stood his ground. The whispers in his head grew louder: a song, a melody, all chanting the same words, directing their power to him. Louder than anything else was the energy of the _eternal tree_ , carrying the tune over the others. Stiles stood as Matt’s darkness washed over him, unharmed.

Matt was just one warlock; he absorbed so much power but he didn’t know how to wield it. His spells were wild and barely controlled, words falling from his tongue crude imitations of Latin and gestures nothing more than a theatrical performance. To be a true magician one needed finesse, born either out of talent or restless practice – Matt had none. Stiles, on the other hand, had his mind crowded by ancient wisdom, and when he lifted a hand in a complicated gesture, it was magic itself leading him and releasing a spell from his fingers. It spread like a wave, pinning the tall grass to the ground and knocking Matt off his feet. His eyes were the eyes of the trees, his hands merely branches and his voice – the rustle of leaves commanding the will of the forest.

He closed in on the one who dared to corrupt the purity of this place. Matt scrambled backwards, digging his heels in the dirt when his palms slipped on the wet grass. He tried to fight back, once more; back pressed to the huge stone that served as an anchor for his spell, he threw a bolt of raw magic at Stiles.

Someone screamed – a growl of a name from someone Stiles held very dear. In the state of mind, he was in, he couldn’t remember who. Couldn’t remember why. His hand lifted of its own volition, catching the bolt in the palm. It stung but trees felt no physical pain so Stiles felt nothing as well.

Matt shouted in rage, his face turned in a horrible snarl, as Stiles stepped up to him. His words were daring, insults and threats. Fear laced his every word. He winced, shielding his face with his hands, when Stiles stopped just a step away.

Stiles rose both hands – he didn’t need to, magic was all in the mind anyway, but he did as if following a script – and laid his palms on the sides of the boulder. It crashed under the touch, washed over by a pale blue light and falling to tiny pieces that the wind scattered away.

Matt gave a pitiful whine, glanced up from under his hands. Stiles was watching him calmly, waiting for a reaction. Matt opened his mouth to produce another snarl but it froze in his throat. His beady eyes glanced around, gaze running over the scene, searching for an escape.

“Fuck you, Stilinski,” he muttered and jumped to his feet.

Stiles watched his figure disappear back into the forest.

“Should you just let him go?” It was Derek, limping to stand by Stiles’ side. He looked otherwise unharmed if a little beaten and terribly exhausted. The creature from the darkness had disappeared as soon as the syphoning spell broke.

“The forest will take care of him,” he replied in a detached tone.

In his mind, Stiles saw possibilities. Trees deciding on the fate of a warlock who dared to deface their land. Their voices were growing weaker as they left his head, only the _eternal_ _tree_ still stayed a humming presence in his mind. It showed him _more_. Supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills, their relief as the strain had lifted. Humans, not knowing what had transpired, but feeling lighter anyway. The forest, blooming in summer and decaying with the beginning of autumn, and then blooming again – an endless cycle he had promised to protect. Stiles kept true to his vow and the _eternal tree_ showed him something else.

Derek was looking at him strangely, standing before Stiles and pressing both hands to his shoulders. Stiles watched his eyes, so many colors in them like a field of flowers in summer. The image superimposed with another. He saw Derek, bent over him in concern, the night sky and dark forest a backdrop to his beautiful face _. But he also saw Derek leaning over him in the morning, in their bed, in their home. His beard heavier and streaked with grey, wrinkles in the corners of his mouth, but those eyes still the same, looking at him with love and adoration._

_He saw Derek holding his hand, his sweaty grip too tight from nerves, as Stiles formally introduced him to the Sheriff._

_He saw them fixing up the Hale house and Cora, Derek’s sister who was already a great friend to Stiles, ‘helping out’ by starting a fight with paint brushes._

_Saw laughter. And love. Saw fights and reconciliations._

_Days and nights, soft kisses and harsh bites._

Saw the future and saw the past – smudges of tragedy on a life that should be showered in happiness.

He saw it all – a ghost of what might be, and grasped at it, unwilling to let go.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice was as soft as the morning he proposed. Stiles shook off the memory of something that had not happened yet.

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper as he was afraid to spook the moment.

Derek was looking at him with affection – that. That was the truth. That was the reality of that moment and Stiles chased it, one path out of many, and gripped the lapels of Derek’s leather jacket and brought them closer and pressed his lips to Derek’s. They tasted just like he remembered.

Echo of the memories of the future faded from his mind, leaving only the present: Derek’s solid chest under his hands, Derek’s soft lips caressing his. Magic still buzzed on his skin, streaks of blue running down his arms and the blue fireflies hung over their heads. Stiles tore himself away, panting for breath, and slumped against Derek tiredly. Strong arms drew him closer into the embrace, Derek’s warmth seeping into his skin.

“We can talk about this later,” Stiles mumbled through a yawn.

“We don’t have to talk about this at all,” Derek muttered; a smile colored his tone.

Stiles pressed sleepily against him, exhaustion finally catching up. Nodded and then rubbed his cheek on the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt. It felt nice. Derek chuckled and pressed a kiss to his head.

Maybe, they didn’t need to talk. Maybe, Derek had seen his own version of the future, the possibilities ahead.

Maybe, they shared the same dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story and liked the [artwork](http://merakieros.tumblr.com/post/161856415833)!
> 
> And a special thank you to the Sterek Reversebang moderators for organizing the whole thing!:D
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated! Please, let me know what you think about the story:D


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